The train arrives in Paris

"So this is where we part ways,” said Fiona Fairweather, unsympathetically.

The two young women had spent an instructive evening in the sleeper car of their shared carriage, which had been loaded onto a ferry in order to cross the English Channel and unloaded again at Calais. Fiona had sorted through Evelyn’s rapidly packed travel bag, found a number of dresses that were only slightly too small for her, and decided to confiscate the whole thing. She had also discovered a curious hollow instrument of polished ivory, with a small but powerful electric motor concealed in its carved shaft, accompanied by a folding explanatory pamphlet that identified as Dr. Featherstone’s Patented All-Purpose Hysteria Cure. A warning label explained it was only to be used under the supervision of a medical professional.

“How interesting,” Fiona had said, smirking down at her helpless victim, now securely strapped down to the lower bunk. The conductor, and three strong coal shovellers with dirty hands, had carried her instructions out to the letter. “Do you suffer dreadfully from hysteria, Evelyn? You don’t look the type.”

Evelyn glared daggers at her. Two pairs of lacy white bloomers from her luggage had been stuffed in the infuriated woman’s mouth, making it quite impossible for her to produce even the smallest sound. Two coal handprints adorned her full, trembling breasts. More decorated her belly, thighs and hips, as elegant and perfectly proportioned as a Greek statue. Her skin was a marginally cooler shade than Fiona’s, her breasts higher and more aristocratic than Fiona’s round country-wench bosom. The thick rubber strips from the train’s spare-parts cupboard had done a splendid job of pinning her down to the mattress.

“Oh, you do?” Fiona thumbed a hidden switch on the base of the device, which instantly purred to life. “Do you know, now that I look at it, this almost looks like a man’s… you know. His instrument. Not that I’d know anything about that, of course.”

Thoughtfully, she traced the tip of the vibrating ivory rod in circles around Evelyn’s left nipple, eliciting a paroxysm of wriggling as the unlucky villainess struggled to detach her person from the stimulating object. “Yes, it really does bear an uncanny resemblance to a fellow’s John Thomas. How fascinating. Now, between you and me, I’m not really a medical doctor, but I do know that hysteria is a very serious condition.”

The rod traced teasing spirals down the slopes of Evelyn’s breasts, over her belly, across her thighs. The dark-haired girl’s struggles grew ever more frantic as it crept closer and closer to the neat delta of midnight-silky hair between her legs, to the intimate rose-pink folds of of her sex, adorned with telltale beads of feminine dew…

But all that had been last night. Now, Fiona was dressed in Evelyn’s nicest flower-patterned kimono, humming the latest Gilbert & Sullivan ditty to herself as she combed her hair in the cabin mirror. She spared a glance for Evelyn, still nude and strapped down, and gave her a wintry smile.

“I will be proceeding from Paris to… the world. What route shall I take? The Orient Express, perhaps? I have yet to decide. But you, I’m afraid, shall not be accompanying me any further.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Ah,” said Fiona. “That’ll be the conductor, and all his strong coal-shovelling boys, come to spirit you off to the lunatic asylum. Where depraved and wayward girls are kept in straitjackets, hosed down with cold water, subject to all manner of experimental therapies and, I believe, occasionally rented out to decadent aristocrats for a few evenings’ fun. I do hope you have a dreadful time. Please, come in.”

The door opened. The conductor stood behind it, hat in hand, accompanied by a number of swarthy working-class lads in grubby overalls. Fiona smiled at him. “My dear friend, I’m afraid all my efforts have been in vain. The poor girl remains as mad as ever.”

“That’s enough out of you, wench.”

“Ah… what?”

The conductor marched over to Evelyn, ripped the two pairs of bloomers out of her mouth, and set about unclasping the straps that fixed her firmly to the bed. “One of my lads paid your friend Evelyn a little visit during the night,” he explained.

“What? How dare he? You have no right to interfere with a patient under my protection!”

“Well, I warned him and I warned him, but he’s the sort of lad you just can’t warn. And it’s a good thing, too. For she wriggled and struggled so frantically that he thought he’d better take the knickers from her mouth to hear what was the matter, and she told him the truth.”

“She’s a lunatic! You can’t believe anything she says!”

“That’s not what she says,” said the conductor, as Lady Evelyn’s free hand snatched the nearest blanket and drew it protectively over her bare form. The coal shovellers sniggered. “All right, all right, I’ll let you do the rest yourself. She says you’re an escaped lunatic pretending to be a doctor, and I can’t believe anything you say.”

“Well, of course she’d say that. She’s a lunatic. Anyway, why didn’t I hear about any of this? I was asleep in the top bunk!”

“They must have been whispering,” the conductor said. “But we’ll have it all sorted out soon enough.”

“Yes we will,” said Evelyn, and grabbed the waistband of Fiona’s kimono. (Or rather, her kimono, which was currently being worn by Fiona.) The delicate Oriental garment, imported from Japan at great expense, came off with a single tug, spinning Fiona around in a circle and leaving her to stand before the astonished conductor and his sniggering squad of workmen in a state of nature. Fiona, quite naturally, squealed and tried to grab the kimono back.

“Alright, alright,” said the conductor, after a few seconds of tug-of-war, during which neither female party quite managed to conceal her ample jiggling charms from the workmen’s engaged eyes. “I’ll be the judge of who owns the kimono.” He reached out and snagged it from Evelyn, making both girls squawk in protest. “Now, for the last time, which one of you is the naked lunatic?”

“She is!”

“She is!”

“Then you both are. That’s good enough for me.” A whistle blew, announcing the arrival of the train at Paris’ expansive Gare du Nord Station. “Lads, throw them off the train.”

“But… my luggage!” protested Evelyn.

“Come back later with some identification and you can pick it up from the lost and found.”

“But my clothes!”

“We’ll keep them safe for you.”

“But my… ah… medical device?”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the conductor, sorting through the travel bag. “There’s a diary in here with Lady Evelyn Crooke’s name on it. We’ll put a series of ads in all the newspapers announcing to the entire world that Lady Evelyn Crooke owns a vibrating anti-hysteria rod and uses it regularly. That way, she’ll be able to find it easily.”

“But I am Evelyn Crooke!”

“Then you’ll have no trouble at all. Anyway, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Out you go.”